


Blipping out of existence

by GonEwiththeWolveS



Series: Witcherworld snap [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: A bit of gore, Kaer Morhen, M/M, So much angst, The Blip, jaskier’s dead in this one, pure angst, seriously, the mcu one yup, the snap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26575738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GonEwiththeWolveS/pseuds/GonEwiththeWolveS
Summary: Witcherworld is snapped.By Thanos, yup....Because I said so.Life after the snap.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcherworld snap [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1932991
Comments: 13
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, I wrote more angst *insert evil laugh here*

Geralt stands frozen in that cobbled street for minutes, staring incomprehensibly at the empty space before him. Jaskier had been there, Jaskier had been in his arms. Jaskier’s gone. All that’s left of him is the bitter tang in Geralt’s mouth, a metallic sour taste, and dust and ash, already scattered in the wind. 

He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know where to go.

The village continues on around him, a whirlwind of chaos and turmoil. It feels wrong. He feels like it should have stopped somehow, like everything should have faded to silence and apathy. Everything that mattered was gone, they should be too. Quieted, forgotten.

But screams keep ringing out from all over. Horrified, grieving, unconsolable sounds that echo shrilly and tear at his ears.

He doesn’t even register moving until he’s already halfway down the street. He doesn’t really have a destination in mind. 

He passes the mangled body of a man in the middle of the street, his abdomen caved in unnaturally and blood mixed with guts and other unglorified things pooling around him. There’s a deep groove in his skull too, shaped like a hoof print. A carriage lies up ahead with no coachman and one missing horse. He must have been run over.

Geralt steps over the gore and keeps going. It doesn’t bother him much, that part. He’s used to seeing human insides in places they don’t belong, it’s a by-product of his labor -- he finds the corpses and kills the responsible party. But those are strangers, people that in life either leered or cowered in fear at the sight of him.

He needs to find some way to ground himself, somewhere to go and get his bearings back, something else to live for.

A dark thought flashes through his mind then. What if it didn’t happen just here? What if everyone, all the people Geralt cares about, are gone as well? Dusted and scattered?

Panic and terror start tearing at his chest, twisting and clawing and squeezing the air out of his lungs. What if he has no one left? Nothing left? Why should he keep going? Keep walking the path and killing strangers’ monsters? What’s the point?

He finds himself in the stables, not really knowing how he’s gotten there. He doesn’t feel in charge of his body. It’s like some alien creature took control of his muscles and made them move, made him walk away. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he’s just following instructions he doesn’t even know he’s hearing. 

There’s a teenage boy crying quietly by the door. Geralt thinks he may be the stablehand, he recognizes his face from before. Jaskier gave him an apple, told him they were Roach’s favorite.

He walks past the boy, not stopping to spare him a second look. He heads over to the stalls. 

There are no horses. 

The bedding is dusty. 

He turns around and goes outside, grabs the reins of a random horse that doesn’t seem to have an owner anymore and rides off.

* * *

He makes it to Kaer Morhen in four days. 

The new Roach isn’t as resilient as the old one, he tires easily, and Geralt finds himself stopping more often than not. He would ride into a village and try to get another horse, but he doesn’t want to step foot in civilization. 

He doesn’t want to know. Doesn't want to find out if what happened was widespread or localized. The whole thing feels like a distant dream, an implausible nightmare. 

He still finds himself waking up and turning to the side, expecting to see Jaskier curled up in his bedroll, shivering in the morning air. He was always cold. Geralt rolled his eyes and scolded him whenever he complained. Told him it was because the ridiculous outfits he insisted on wearing did nothing in the way of insulation. But Jaskier always brushed him off.

It used to annoy Geralt so much, but now... he wished he could have that back. Wished he could have everything back.

He still can’t believe he’s gone. It feels like a trick, like he’s been told a joke and is waiting for the punchline. But there’s no explanation forthcoming. He’s just left there, in the limbo. And every morning he finds himself waking up alone, he feels more apathetic and aloof. Intellectually, he knew it would happen, knew as soon as he started letting himself care for the human that he was dooming himself to heartbreak. It was inevitable that Jaskier would die eventually, of old age or sickness, and Geralt would not, at least not by the hand of nature. 

But he thought he’d have time. Time to distance himself and to prepare, to rationalize the inevitability. He didn’t get that. He got an armful of ashes and a hole in his chest, one currently occupied by a steel coolness that grew larger every day and had nothing to do with the drop in temperature he felt as he continued heading up the blue mountains, nearing the keep.

He reaches the main gate by midday. The bridge is lowered, which isn’t unusual, but if Vesemir had heard of the happenings he might have been exercising certain precautions. 

He crosses the archway and heads into the entrance courtyard, not letting himself worry yet. 

The keep is quiet, but seeing as it usually has one sole inhabitant, he doesn’t expect much noise. Of course, if the happenings  _ were  _ generalized, other witchers were bound to show up here to regroup and search for explanations. Eskel and Lambert would come, the last remnants of his guild. He misses them. It’d be nice to see them again. He wouldn’t ever admit that to Lambert, though. 

He goes to the stables first. They’re all empty except for Volans, Vesemir’s gelding, who kicks up a fuss as soon as he spots Geralt coming in. 

Geralt tries to shush him, but he neighs loudly, banging his hoof on the iron hinge of the stall door in protest. 

All Geralt’s attempts to appease him are unsuccessful, so he settles Roach in quickly and goes over to Volans’ stall to see what all the racket is about. 

The gelding bobs his head up and down as he approaches, taking a few steps back and kicking his hind legs out. His stall is foul-smelling, Geralt noticed it as soon as he walked into the stables, and when he opens the door, patting the gelding on the neck in an attempt to calm him, he realizes why. 

It probably hasn’t been changed in days, the horse has been stewing in his own filth for a while. He takes a look inside the water and food basin and finds them both empty. 

Ignoring the growing dread in his stomach, he switches the gelding into another stall and fills the food basins. Volans quiets then. He attacks the offerings immediately, going for the water first, and Geralt brushes a hand down his mane, working the thick knots and picking out wood shavings from the hair. Vesemir would never neglect a horse like this.

After making sure the horses are taken care of, he leaves the stables and heads up to the inner keep. He intends to go back out there later to clean Volans’ older stall and exercise him a bit -- he doesn’t know how long the poor horse has been cooped up -- but first he wants to find Vesemir. 

He’s ignoring the part of his brain that’s telling him the search is useless -- if the horse was abandoned, he wouldn’t find Vesemir in the keep either. Still, he calls out for the old witcher as soon as he steps inside the great hall, waiting for a response with breath bated in his throat. He doesn’t get one. 

The silence is becoming oppressive as he stands in the great hall, feeling lost -- something that hasn’t happened to him since he was a small boy, over fifty years ago -- so he goes to the kitchens, looking for any signs of life. He spots a bowl of peeled potatoes and a couple of carrots resting on the big center counter when he enters, being fought over by flies. They’ve completely browned.

The cauldron over the hearth has a serving of soup in it, but the fire has long since died out and the boiler is cool. 

He goes to the armory next, finds it the same as it was when he came here last winter and leaves it alone. 

He hasn’t checked the living quarters and the library yet, and he refuses to face the obvious until he’s forced to. He heads back into the great hall and climbs the stairs to the upper level, where those last chambers are located.

The library is closer, so he goes there first. Nothing seems amiss initially. The tall bookcases and reading desks sit undisturbed in their usual layout, most of the stored books covered in a fine dust that gathers simply from the lack of use. No one has bothered to clean them in a long time. 

Vesemir complains about it from time to time, during the winters, but there’s always more pressing tasks to complete to keep the kaer afloat than dusting off old books. The keep is barely holding itself together as it is. The use and wear of time lays heavily on it. That, combined with the damage sustained during the raid on the kaers, makes it a poor choice of residence. 

They knew better than to ask Vesemir to leave, though. And in a way, none of them wanted to either. It was to the winters that they looked for, and winters were always spent here, under the cover of memories and old routines. 

He walks further into the room and notices a pile of books on a desk facing a broken window. Vesemir had complained about that too the previous winter, saying the cold weather would damage the papers. A bird had flown into it and shattered the glass, leaving a rounded crater behind.

He almost dismisses the books entirely until he notices that the dust covering them is different from the one on the shelves. It’s darker and thicker, and there’s some on the chair too.

He walks outside and leaves Vesemir behind. 

* * *

He settles into a routine. 

He runs repairs on the castle in the mornings and evenings, uses the afternoons to exercise the horses and carry out chores. He doesn’t go into the library or Vesemir’s room, tries not to walk near them altogether.

The weather is turning, and even if Eskel and Lambert hadn’t come to the keep scared off by recent events, they should have been arriving now for the winter. Geralt avoids thinking about it too much. He sits outside every evening before heading off to bed, looking out at the mountain pass and searching. He’s yet to find anything. 

He’s tiring of being alone, tiring of going through the same motions with no pay off or reward. But he doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t know what will happen to him if he stops and allows himself to think.

In the end, it’s not Eskel or Lambert that come. 

He sees her before she reaches the drawbridge, riding a chestnut mare. She must have portalled to the supply village downhill and gotten the horse there. She’s never been to the kaer, she wouldn’t know to portal here directly.

He meets her in the inner courtyard.

She dismounts smoothly and approaches him silently. Her strides are still long and purposeful, full of the willpower and force that is Yennefer, but her eyes tell a different story. She’s lost people too.

He doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t either. They don’t have to.

She wraps her arms around Geralt and he buries his face in her hair, smelling lilac and gooseberries. The scent is reassuringly familiar, making a fierce sense of reprieve and weary surrender sweep through him, and he feels so fucking glad to have someone. He’s not alone.

If a few tears escape Geralt’s eyes, neither of them mention it.

* * *

Yennefer’s presence is helpful. It keeps him grounded, having someone to coexist with. 

They take turns making meals, and Yennefer helps out with whatever tasks she can. She usually prefers to spend her time out with the horses, brushing down the chestnut mare she’d brought with her. She named her Lilac. 

She’d never really had a horse for herself before, she revealed to him once over dinner. She was becoming fonder of the idea of horse travelling -- understanding its perks, she said.

She cleans out the library. He doesn’t know she’s done it until she hands him a small pot, lets her hands linger on his for longer than necessary as she hands it over, an attempt at comfort.

He takes it, sets it down on the big table in the great hall and stares at it for a while, maybe a few hours. 

He heads out the next day, goes up to the headwaters of the nearby creek. He goes on foot.

The morning is calm, despite the chilly air, and the water flows freely, brisk and clear. There are large rocks there, light grey and polished by the running water, which is exactly what he came for. He picks one out that looks about the right size and shape and wraps it up in a tarp, swings it over his shoulder. 

The walk back isn’t very grueling, but it takes a while, especially with the added weight. He didn’t bring Roach because the logistics of carrying the stone would take even more time, and he appreciates the trek, either way. It helps take his mind off things.

Yennefer’s by the paddock when he returns, tending to Lilac and Volans. He’ll have to take Roach for a ride later. He’s been thinking of heading down to the village and trade him for a sturdier younger horse. Maybe he’ll make time next week.

He brings the rock over to the shed and lays it down on the working table, searches for the tools. 

Yennefer’s still outside when he steps out for the day. It’s nearing dusk now, the sun setting between the peaks of the western mountains. She’s strolling in the vegetable garden, not doing much really, probably just waiting for him without letting it seem too obvious.

They walk inside together and eat dinner in companionable silence. Yennefer grabs a bottle of red wine from the kitchens, and pours them both a glass. He has no idea where she’s gotten it from -- witchers don’t make a habit of storing wine, they usually keep to the stronger stuff. She must have portalled down to the supply village and gotten some, he hasn’t seen her ride out. He knows she has a taste for it.

They each retire to their separate quarters later on.

He digs a hole in the makeshift graveyard the next day, buries Vesemir with the others, the witchers that never came to be. Young boys who’d died in the trials, unable to endure the mutations. They were all nameless, nothing but a small marker to signal their final resting place, but he knows Vesemir knew every last one of them, remembered where they were buried. 

He finishes the tombstone and engraves Vesemir’s name on it, brings it over to the yard. He stands over it when it’s done, feels the cool breeze on his face. It’ll start snowing soon. 

Yennefer comes over to find him like that, and takes her place next to him, holds his hand and pays her respects. He thinks Vesemir would have approved, quiet and unpretentious, a simple service.

Yennefer tugs at his hand an undetermined amount of time later, herds him inside. He takes one last look at the gravestone, white and stark among the wild green of the yard. 

He goes back to the creek the day after, brings two more.

He can’t make himself work on them just yet, so he just leaves them in the shed for the moment, goes do something else. 

There’s other things to do, things that take his time, or maybe he’s just avoiding it. He goes over to the supply town, trades the gelding for a bay mare, younger and more robust, and fixes the window in the library. He goes over to the yard in the evening, tells Vesemir about it. The books are safe from the cold now.

He casts a look at the shed every time he walks by, but he only makes himself go in it and finish the work two weeks later.

He lays Eskel and Lambert to rest beside Vesemir.

It’s merely symbolic, he has no ashes to bury, but he thinks they would have liked that. 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s two more months of their established routine before Yennefer breaks the news over dinner.

They’re supping on the large table by the hearth in the large hall, as they usually do these days. The stew is not the best. He made it himself and he’s never had much of a talent for cuisine, but it’s edible and there’s fresh meat in it - a couple of hares he hunted down this morning in his usual stroll outside the grounds.

Winter is upon them now. Animals are scarcer to come by and hunts tend to come up dry more often than not. They still have quite a bit of food in store, and with just two people in the kaer it should last them long enough to wait the coming blizzard out and then some.

He can head out to the supply town a few weeks from now and restock, but he might not need to if he keeps getting lucky and catches a few more hares. He’ll try riding down to the lake tomorrow if the weather allows for it. Perhaps he’ll fare better with fishing.

Yennefer doesn't appreciate the cold much, especially in the mornings, and has no quells about letting him know it, loudly. He hears her gripes and complaints, but knows she doesn’t really mean it when she grumbles about leaving.

She’s sitting closest to the fire now, angled sideways in her chair so she can prop her feet up by the flames. They share a bottle of red that burns pleasantly on the way down, battles the cold that seems to seep into their bones.

“I heard some troubling rumors on the megascope today,” she says matter of factly, not moving her gaze away from the flickering fire. There’s a calculated effort she’s making in order to have the information seem casual, unimportant, and that alone puts him on edge.

Geralt looks up from his stew, regards her quietly, and waits for her to continue.

“Nilfgaard appears to have resumed their march north,” she finally reveals, pausing to take a sip from the cup of red in her hand. “With the kingdoms in their current state of disarray, they’re tearing through the country like a hot knife through butter. They’ve already taken Ebbing, Metinna and Maecht.”

His hold tightens on the stew bowl. He knows what she’s trying to say, what she’s trying to get at.

He remembers when he first told her about his child-surprise, how the information had just tumbled from his lips, unwarranted and unaware, and how she’d given him hell over it. He knows she’s more than capable of doing that again if he takes the course of action she deems wrong.

She knows him well enough by now to deduce that he cares, though, more than he should - even when he tells himself he doesn’t, shouldn’t. He’s thought about the child since the event, briefly. He didn’t allow himself much time to dwell on it, he had bigger things to avoid thinking about, but he did ponder. Wondered if they were alive, if the royal family had received a pruning as well.

The cleansing - that’s what the folk had started calling it - had struck amongst poor and rich alike, it hadn’t differentiated. Sick or hale, young or old, comely or rank, all sides had taken losses. Folk were also claiming it to be divine punishment from the gods, that the rotten had been purged from the land. It was horseshit.

Children had died, innocent women… _Jaskier_. And a lot of bad people had been left behind too, thieves and bandits and rapers. This had been no work of deities or destiny, it had been pure evil. Geralt should know, he’s used to dealing with it.

“Cintra?” he asks, knowing Yen will understand his meaning.

“In a fortnight most likely.”

“Will it stand?”

She stares at the flickering flames, sets her cup down on the side of the table.

“Not very long.”

* * *

Yennefer offers to portal him.

He thinks about refusing, remembers how terribly horrid it is to travel by magical means, but in the end time presses him forward.

Cintra won’t have very long, and if he has any hope of getting there in time to see to his child surprise and his responsibilities, he needs the fastest route. If that means biting his tongue and nursing a two day long nausea spell, then so be it. He’s endured far worse for less.

* * *

Cintra is not as he remembers.

Beggars litter the streets, emaciated and ghastly looking, living skeletons the lot of them. The cleansing must have done a good number on their livestock and economy. They’re barely hanging on.

It’s fowler smelling than he remembered. A likely consequence of the trying times.

Queen Calanthe had also been taken in the cleansing, or so Yen had told him. As her heir lacked maturity, the kingdom had fallen into the hands of the prince consort Eist, who, mad with grief, had not been doing a good job keeping it afloat.

He arranges for a meeting with the druid Mousesack, whom he last saw at that dreadful banquet all those years ago, and books a room at an inn.

They meet the following afternoon, near the castle grounds.

“Geralt!” Mousesack greets him with a toothy smile and open arms. He seems genuinely pleased to see him, which allows Geralt to relax minutely. He’s been tense ever since he set foot in Cintra, dreading what he’d find here. “I am pleased to find you still among us, old friend. I feared the worst, as I usually do nowadays. I’m glad to have been wrong, I’m proven right regrettably often.”

Geralt hums noncommittal in response, not wanting to delve further into talk of the cleansing.

“I’d forgotten you’re not quite fond of words,” Mousesack chuckles, leaning forward to rest his hands on the railing. They’re in a square overlooking the harbour, a couple hundred feet above the bustling dockhands. “Say, why have you come, old friend? Have you finally decided to claim your child of surprise?”

Geralt keeps quiet, weighing his options for a while. He hadn’t exactly come for the child, he merely intended to attest to their well being personally, but if it seemed like they would be safer with him, which was looking more likely by the minute, then he would leave with them and keep them safe. Such was his responsibility, and he was finished running from it.

Jaskier always pushed him to check on the child before, and he never listened. He would now. He hadn’t been able to protect him, but he can protect this child.

“Is he well?”

“He?”

The amused bogglement in Mousesacks’ voice leads Geralt to glance at him in surprise.

“The young princess is in good health, if still grieving for her grandmother. The child is strong of spirit though, she will endure.”

A girl. He had assumed the child to be a boy, as children born under a witcher’s law of surprise tended to be, but somehow the tables had turned on him. He didn’t know the first thing about caring for a child, much less a girl. It threw him for a loop.

Mousesack could see the shock clear on his face, and his eyes twinkled in response, a smile playing on his lips.

“I gather you’ll be wishing to speak with the king regent? I warn you, these last months have taken a toll on him, he is but a shell of the man you once knew. He lost his entire kin in the cleansing, everyone ‘cept for the princess. He’s keeping up a good front for her, but the man is near broken. I fear bad tidings are coming for Cintra.”

Geralt nods solemnly and joins Mousesack in overlooking the great sea.

* * *

Geralt has an audience with the king regent that same evening.

The king receives him in an adjoining room of the great hall, used for minor meetings and small matters of state.

He almost doesn’t recognize the man before him. He is gaunt and sickly looking, dark deep smudges under his eyes in the shape of crescent moons that bespeak many sleepless nights. The pallor of his face makes him look more dead than alive, and Geralt can tell with his heightened sense of smell that he hasn’t bathed in a while from where he’s standing. He looks defeated.

He stands by the hearth, looking into the flickering lights, and hasn’t turned to Geralt once since he’s come in, not even to give him a passing glance or in greeting.

“I assume you’ve come for Cirilla?” he says, eyes lost in the flames and their secrets.

“I’ve come to ensure her safety.”

“You’re taking her with you,” he states. His voice is devoid of feeling, as empty and void as the rest of him appears to be.

“I can keep her safe, take her north. Nilfgaard is coming, she’ll be safer somewhere else,” he tries to justify, frowning in confusion at the lack of reaction on Eist’s part. Geralt can’t begin to guess what is going on in the king regent’s head. He doesn't know if his words are falling on deaf ears or if the man agrees with his reasoning, he feels at a loss. “I’ll bring her back when it’s over, when no more danger will come to her here.”

Eist remains silent and stoic where he stands, not moving an inch.

“I don’t think there’ll be much left for her to return to.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t know what to respond to that. The man seems resigned to his fate, or what he has deemed his destiny to be. Perhaps he wants to be reunited with his beloved in the other world.

Geralt feels like he ought to talk to the king, at least make an attempt to preserve the last family the young girl about to be dropped into his care has, make sure she has something to come back to when it’s all over. But he doesn’t have the words to help, doesn’t even know where to begin looking for them. Perhaps if he did they’d have helped him too.

He doesn’t think the king would have been very receptive to them either way.

The guards come and take him to the princess.

* * *

He doesn’t know what to expect, doesn't know what he’s getting himself into. He can’t deny the fierce protectiveness that fills his soul like a blazing fire when he sets his eyes on the young girl sworn to him by destiny, though. This intense urge to protect and preserve, like it’s the most important thing in the world, like it’s all he’s been put on this sphere to do.

He guesses it’s hard to argue with destiny when it strikes a person like this.

She’s a tiny little thing, thin yet large in her fierceness, in her attempt to look every bit the lioness she envisioned her grandmother to be. She stands tall and raises her head high, makes no attempt to hide the tear tracks that still glisten in her cheeks.

Her eyes are puffy and red, green and wet like summer dew. Her hair is a pale shade of gold, so light it’s almost silvery, like the first sun rays through the winter snow.

She eyes him with wariness at first, as she ought to, but somehow she seems to trust him implicitly, something that seems to unsettle her. He catches her confused frowns on occasion, when she answers a question unthinkingly or complies with an order unquestionably, those moments afterwards where she seems to catch herself and wonder why she just did what she did.

It goes both ways, which leaves him a bit rattled at first, but he adapts well. He’s had practice with nagging bards that wouldn’t leave him alone and sorceresses that seemed to follow everywhere he went. He knows what it’s like for someone to slip under your defenses undetected and demand residency in your heart.

They take to the road after leaving Cintra, with one of the horses from the Cintran stables. They take just the one, since the kingdom isn’t exactly in a state to offer up goods it can’t afford, and they don’t need much anyway. Cirilla weighs about as much as the horse tack itself, and the gelding is burly. They’ll make good time and be in Kaedwen in about a month.

The horse’s coat is dark and its mane is muddy grey, and it can get a bit of a temper, but it’s fast. He’d started calling it Roach, since he always does, but the princess had frowned reproachfully at that and informed him in no uncertain terms that the gelding’s name was to be Blazer. Geralt had snorted, amused, but complied.

Yennefer hadn’t stayed with him with Cintra, since someone needed to look after the horses and he didn’t know how long he’d be. He would also prefer to avoid portals any chance he got, so he was grateful to take the road.

The path was hard for the little princess who had never so much as stepped foot outside of Cintra before though, so Geralt made sure they always had an inn to rest at and plenty food to sup on.

The more north they went, the colder it would get, however. He bought warmer clothing for her once the temperatures started dropping low enough to warrant it, and furs for a warmer bedroll. They had avoided it so far, but camping out would be inevitable once they reached the blue mountains. Villages and settlements were few and far between them, and some best left avoided altogether. Especially with a young girl in tow.

Cirilla is quiet for the most part, big green eyes observing their surroundings with unwavering focus wherever they went. She was a sharp one, and intelligent too. It took weeks until she started opening up more, uttering the passing phrase on occasion.

She always stuck to his side around other people, hid behind his back in the inns and marquets, and she always took a long time falling asleep at night, though she’d pretend not to. He’d make a show of sitting up and pacing the room, guarding it, hoping it would make her feel safe enough to fall asleep, and made sure to keep the fire going in the hearth all night long so she’d never be cold.

It was easy for the most part to keep his head down and refrain from making waves. Now, if someone tried to pick a fight with him, he would no longer stand or wait to see how it played out, he removed himself from the situation immediately and tried someplace else.

People had grown paranoid since the cleansing. Some shunned all matter of magic and sorcery, claiming it to be impure and the reason behind the punishment. As a witcher, he was already used to this kind of treatment, but the princess was not.

He remembers the first time he was run out of a town with Cirilla in this journey, remembers the fear and confusion in her face like it was happening right now. Once the people in the marquet had started getting hostile he’d grabbed her by the arm and all but raced them to the horse.

She was quick to read the environment in villages since then, and she always seemed on guard, ready for the other shoe to drop. He wishes he could change that, make it safer for her to travel, but the best he can do is to remain vigilant.

He had a few contracts offered to him, but he shot everything down. He had enough coin to get them to Kaedwen, and he didn’t want to leave Cirilla alone nor did he want to take her in any possibly dangerous quests. They’d have to make do.

* * *

They’re nearing Dol Blathanna - and unpleasant memories for Geralt - when they happen upon him. They overnighted in a village and set to the path early in the morning, just after first light. They’re passing a stretch of road in the forest when the sounds of fighting reach their ears, loud and shrill in the cold silence of the wilderness. It seems to be some kind of creature, judging by the sounds it’s making, that caught a traveller unaware.

Cirilla's hands tighten under his where they rest on the reins and he tenses, locating the source of the commotion through his enhanced hearing. His first instinct is to run, to keep the princess safe, but the girl turns in the saddle, putting a hand in his chest and pulling the reins to a stop when a shout rings out.

“You have to help,” she says, eyes wavering among the trees. “They sound like they’re in trouble.”

“We might be too if we stop,” he reminds her, reaching around her to retake the reins.

“Please,” she says simply, looking at him.

He regards her silently, feeling torn. She has a way of getting to him, making him do things he would otherwise not. She doesn’t even have to say much, just look at him with those big green eyes and he forgets all the reasons why he’s supposed to say no.

It’s regrettable, a witcher brought to heel by the whims of a girl. What would Vesemir say, he wonders with a snort. He would have probably been just as whipped. He always did have a soft spot for the young and reckless.

He grits his teeth and dismounts, smothering a protesting sigh.

“If you hear anything you’re not supposed to, grab the reins and _go_. I’ll catch up to you later. And whatever you do, don’t come near the fighting,” he instructs firmly, retrieving his scabbard from the horse tack. Cirilla nods once and offers no other words of understanding, but he knows she’ll obey his orders.

He leaves her and treds forward, follows the noises. He comes upon a clearing shortly.

There’s a small camp set up. A fire pit whose fire burnt out sometime during the night and a bedroll tossed open by it, looking like someone left it in a hurry - or was torn out of it. Saddle bags rest next to the bed roll, presumably belonging to the spooked horse that neighs and tosses his head up and down a few feet away, tied to a tree.

He passes the camp and heads towards the fighting.

A thick fog lifts suddenly as he make his way forward and he raises his silver sword immediately, surveying his surroundings for the creatures. He knows exactly what this is.

He comes across the reason for the tumult right away. A band of foglers seem to be the culprit. A group of three are converging on a man, clawing and scratching at whatever they can. The man, however, is doing a valiant effort of fighting them off.

Geralt spares a moment to be surprised before he notices the glint of metal at the man’s chest, the familiar shape of a witcher medallion. It seems like he’s not the last of his kind after all. He’s never met this man, never seen his face, so he must belong to one of the other schools. There isn’t time to observe anything else before the foglers notice his presence and pull him into the fight.

Two witchers make quick work of dispatching three foglers, and soon they stand alone in the now clearing fog, the forest returning to its normal pre-fogler state.

The witcher sheaths his sword and eyes him curiously.

“I thank you for the assistance, wolf,” he says, nodding at Geralt’s own medallion, laying above his heart. “Damn foglers caught me off guard.”

Geralt nods back in response, sheathing his own sword as he studies the stranger with closer attention. He has peculiar eyes for a witcher, a greenish hue to them which he’s never encountered before, and his medallion is of the griffin school.

“Name’s Coen,” he introduces himself, extending a hand.

Geralt takes it and says, “Gerallt of Rivia.”

The witcher’s eyes widen slightly in recognition as they shake hands.

“The white wolf? Truly? I’ve heard of you,” Coen says, cracking a smile. “Ballads of your deeds are awfully popular among the folk nowadays.”

A pang rings painfully in Geralt’s heart at the casual reminder of Jaskier, and it must show on his face, for the other witcher seems to sense it.

“Don’t mean to bring up any bad memories,” he says, in lieu of an apology. “Times’ve been hard since the cleansing. It’s nice to know there’s still some of us out there, at least.”

“You’re the only one I’ve ran into since,” Geralt admits as they turn and start heading back towards the clearing.

Coen hums, a small understanding sound.

They walk in silence the rest of the way, the weight of their loneliness resting heavy on their shoulders.


End file.
